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It was cold, so damn cold and Heyes’s temperature was still rising. He mumbled incoherent words; his feverish eyes were unable to focus on him anymore. Wherever Heyes’s mind was, it wasn’t with him as the fever burned him up inside out. Kid Curry cooled his friend’s body with snow until the shivers set in. Within minutes Heyes body trembled like brittle branches in a storm.
Once again, Curry stirred the fire before he lay down beside his friend, pulling him into his arms, holding him close, so close. He cupped the back of Heyes’s head with his hand, coaxing him to rest against his chest, whispering his name over and over again like a mantra, a song, a prayer: “Heyes... Heyes... Stay with me. Don’t go. Don’t go now, Heyes.” And the tone of his voice revealed everything he was forbidden to say as did the tenderness of his touch.
The shivers decreased, slowly the tension left Heyes’s body, his breathing grew shallow, almost imperceptible. Kid Curry’s voice became desperate as he tried to will his friend to live, to stay with him, to live just a little bit longer - just an hour, just one night, just until he was prepared to let him go, knowing that time would never come.
He felt wetness in his eyes, on his face, instantly starting to freeze in the damn cold wind that must have created the pearls in the first place. He felt loneliness creeping into his heart despite the fact that his friend was still alive. He was overwhelmed by his feelings of desperation caused by his inability to do more to save the one who meant the most to him.
He couldn’t imagine a life without Heyes. It would be like thinking of a life without a head, without a heart, without a soul. He knew what living without a soul meant. He had been in that place for a while - after the shooting of Danny Bilson - but he had been saved by the never-ending attempts of his pesky friend, the friend who was now laying in his arms, breathing out his life ... burning out like a candle. And there was no way for him to restore him. All he could do was share his warmth with him and call his name, his beautiful, precious name: “Heyes. Heyes...”
-o-o-o-o-
He was stumbling through an endless desert. Everything around him was white: the snow-covered ground as well as the biting flakes driven through the air by the storm, that forced him to his knees over and over again. The sky wasn’t visible and neither was the scenery, but he would stake a bet that it was also white.
He was lost, couldn’t recall where he was coming from or heading to. His whole life was reduced to cold and emptiness and the endless exertion of setting one foot in front of the other, fighting to reach an unknown destination.
Voices echoed in the storm: voices of family and friends and foes – all long gone - at least he thought so. They called him, haunted him, asked him to join them. He had lost any sense of direction, couldn’t draw a line anymore between reality and imagination, couldn’t say why he was walking.
The next time he fell he didn’t struggle to get up again. The ground didn’t feel hard at all. It was soft, cold but soft, almost inviting. Maybe he could lay here for a while, rest, close his eyes, which were tearing up and blinded by wind and snow. A moment, just a short moment ... rest ... stop fighting the inevitable ...
Ba-dam, ba-dam, ba-dam.
A new sound rode with the raging storm. Strong and warm and familiar.
Ba-dam, ba-dam, ba-dam.
The sound wouldn’t let him go, it vibrated through his mind, and he felt his body responding almost against his will, the promise of soft oblivion was almost too tempting. Slowly a new voice traced through the wind, calling his name.
He was there. He couldn’t see him, but he knew he was there.
The cold lost its bite. The loneliness disappeared.
The white desert wasn’t empty anymore. Now he knew his destination ...
In a trance he struggled up again, encouraged by the sound of the invisible drum, which grew stronger and stronger with every step, setting a beacon for him, a sign to follow. He knew he would never go wrong following this sound, following this voice. He could always trust both of them.
He felt safe. He felt warm. He felt home.
Hannibal Heyes opened his eyes. It was dark.
Something warm was wrapped around him, covered him, too close to see. He still heard the sound. Close, very close.
Ba-dam, ba-dam, ba-dam.
He lifted his head. The sound ceased. An icy coldness bit his face.
It was still dark. Only the reflection of a small fire lit up his partner’s eyes inches away from him, unbelievable blue and dark.
Instinctively, Heyes jerked and tried to draw away. His sight was blurry and he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but he saw the color draining from his partner’s face, felt his body stiffen. Kid Curry’s face appeared wet to him. Was it raining?
He knew he was resting in his arms. He knew that should unsettle him – he gave it a thought, listened to himself - but it didn’t. He didn’t care.
He was bone tired. So he just beamed a reassuring smile at his partner and laid down his head again, not on his chest, but on his shoulder. Sighing softly, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
Kid Curry relaxed again. He heaved a sigh and hugged his partner a little tighter, rested his cheek against his dark shock of hair. Maybe he would live to regret it, but at least Heyes would live – both of them would live. And nothing else mattered.